


Displaced Session

by reenjames



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Blood, Compassionate Dark, Dark helps him through them, Gen, Knives, Sad Wilford, Thoughtful Conversations, Warning in Notes, Wilford has dark thoughts, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 17:52:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15345267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reenjames/pseuds/reenjames
Summary: Wilford misses a one-on-one planning session with Dark, so Dark takes it upon himself to find him. Where he finds him, however, concerns him greatly.





	Displaced Session

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea for a sad Wilford because well...I was sad and had to write this. I needed to hear these things quite recently and didn't, so hopefully they'll help even one of you. Also...I'm also a sucker for angst and emotional hurt/comfort :)
> 
> PLEASE READ THIS. There's a trigger warning for this fic. There is talk of suicide and a brief implication to self-harm. If you think it may trigger you, do NOT read it. If it does, I'm available to talk if need be. Just please be wary.

Dark hurried through the halls of the manor. While he felt as though his agitation must be readily apparent, to any other his demeanor was typical - haughty walk, pinched mouth, aura flickering from red to blue in regular, quick intervals. He wasn’t agitated per say, but perturbed. While conducting his monthly, one-on-one strategy sessions with the egos, he found himself very much alone in the time allotted to Wilford. The flamboyant ego was expected to regularly miss the all-hands meetings due to his seemingly non-existent patience, the monthly facetime with Dark was the ideal situation from which he could soak up focused, individualized attention. Most of the sessions with Wilford were filled with inane conversation that detailed anything but schemes to seize control of the channel. Dark, on the other hand, was privately amenable to the time reserved to speak with Wilford. Although the progress made was not quantifiable toward his primary goal, Dark recognized the value in obliging to listen to what he considered no more than blathering. Honestly, when was he going to apply the facts he now knew about the different types of corduroy (one was too much in his opinion). He had mused more than once that Wilford should take up writing a lifestyle blog of sorts as a hobby. 

No, Dark saw these sessions as a place for Wilford to expend some of his boundless energy. When the man reached the limit of his restlessness, he was liable to prime his favorite handgun and use his own considerable persuasion skills to coax an unsuspecting passerby to ask for death; he was happy to oblige the coerced victim. Dark hoped to avoid these situations if possible. Not that he was at all concerned with killing bystanders, on the contrary - no one was innocent in his eyes. He wanted to avoid such occurrences because Dr. Iplier couldn’t spare of his time to deal with the aftermath, nor could Dark himself continued to use the money saved for overhead expenses to bribe mass quantities of the police force to turn a blind eye. 

So, when Wilford was absent from the session today, Dark assumed they would soon receive news of the man’s murderous exploits. Stopping briefly in the Silver Shepard’s office, he checked the police scanner, but heard no mention of distinctive, pink facial hair. Regrettably, Dark’s next course of action was to speak to the Jims. They had the uncanny knack for maintaining a catalogue of the whereabouts of the other egos. A useful skill in some instances, Dark would admit, but most often he found the tendency bothersome, considering his activities often require a high level of anonymity. 

Dark found the news duo not-so-covertly filming the King of the Squirrels leading a group of his subjects across the expanse of the backyard. As he neared the pair, he was able to make out the general theme the commentator was trying to convey, claiming with conviction that the mass, squirrel relocations were the beginnings of end times. Sighing deeply, Dark deliberately came to a stop within the personal space of the Jims. Receiving no recognition, he loudly cleared his throat and was met with matching, indignant glares. The protest died on the tip of Reporter Jim’s tongue. His body language switched abruptly when he realized he was in the presence of the head ego, crossing his arms tightly as he stared at a very interesting speck of nothing of the lapel of Dark’s suit. 

Pleased with the deference, Dark smirked at the two and flicked his eyes to the lense shakily pointed as his person before speaking. 

“Reporter Jim, I have a query and I know that you have the answer,” Dark told the man before him with an obvious lack of respect for the sensationalist’s specialization clear in the heavy, drawn-out emphasis on the man’s title. 

“Yes, sir? I-I mean, Dark?” Reporter Jim struggled to vocalize. The smirk Dark wore evolved into a frightening approximation of a smile, his over-white teeth flashing momentarily.  

“Have you seen Wilford? He missed our meeting today.”

Reporter Jim searched his thoughts before answering the head ego, “He was poking around the kitchen earlier.”

After a minute’s pause, Dark raised an eyebrow, waiting for Jim to continue. When he didn’t, Dark sighed and took a small step forward, causing Reporter Jim to take an abortive step backwards in fear. Dark held up his hand in attempt to calm the other man, which, in turn, had the opposite reaction and caused the reporter to flinch and subsequently fall onto the grass. Pursing his lips, Dark continued.

“Was he acting strangely or did he say anything in particular?” Dark unthinkingly trained his gaze upon Reporter Jim in an attempt to silently will him to answer. When the only answer he received was silence, Dark straightened his jacket, fleetingly glanced at Cameraman Jim’s lense, and turned on his heel, heading back to the manor. 

“He was mumbling about a woman named Justine? Irene? Christine? I’m not sure, he was in one of his moods,” Dark heard Reporter Jim whisper from the ground. Dark didn’t bother to try to correct the behavior and headed straight for the kitchen. Although he noted nothing out of the ordinary (other than the new, complicated coffee machine that Bing swore by and Dark was meaning to make mysteriously disappear), he did note that one of the knives from the block was missing and was absent from the sink.

Letting his aura pulse about the manor, he was met with cries of pain from a few of the egos closer to the kitchen. Dark shrugged off the pain he caused and felt out for Wilford’s own powerful aura. He found it and was surprised to note that it was directly above him, some feet up. There was only one place he could be - the roof. 

Dark dropped the act and hurried up the stairs to the roof, frantic look in his eyes as they darted back and forth, searching each landing. He swung open the door and locked his gaze on the humped back of Wilford sitting on the edge of the roof without as much as a flinch of acknowledgment. Side-stepping toward the downtrodden man, Dark stopped when he was within arm’s length before he calmly stated, “Wil, its me.”

Wilford didn’t jump, but didn’t turn before responding either. He said in a whisper, “Why am I alive?”

Dark sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He wished he had an answer that made the whole mansion debacle make sense other than “magic”. He wished he could say because the whole thing was a joke or a dream or a story in a children’s novel with a farfetched, happy ending, but he couldn’t. He answered regardless of the fact that he knew what Wilford asked was rhetorical in the most honest way he could, “Because I need you.” 

Wilford turned to him, knife in his hand clenched tight enough to draw blood, the redness running down his arm and staining his khakis. The sight was likened enough to that of the colonel after the fateful day Dark ‘woke up’ that he was forced to action. He approached the man slowly, but with purpose, whispering phrases like ‘It’s ok’, ‘You’re safe’, and ‘I’m here’. Dark crouched in front of Wilford and could now see the tear stained face, bloodshot eyes, and the extent of the damage he’d done himself. Thankfully, Dark had reached him before he could do more than slice his hand, but the cut was deep and still gushing blood. He reached for the knife and Wilford pulled back, threatening to throw off his balance on the ledge. Dark grabbed his arm before he could fall, which consequently knocked the knife from his hand as well. Wilford was surprised at the force the Dark used to pull him to safety, but was not harmed. 

“Wil, you can’t let what happened at the manor control your life,” Dark started. He tore off his tie and wound it in a tight, makeshift wrapping to stop the bleeding. The crimson was immediately a shade darker with the blood. “It’ll kill you if you do.”

“And how bad would that be? The world could use one less useless-” Dark tugged the tie tight as he finished tying it around Wilford’s hand, causing a sharp jolt of pain that impeded his speech. “Dark! What are you on about!?” 

“Stop that talk right now,” Dark reprimanded. “You are important to so many people. And no, I’m not just talking about Mark’s silly fans. I’m talking about the other egos as well. Where would Bim be without you? Certainly not the caliber of host he is today. And the Jims? Who would they write a scathing, mostly false report about every few months? And the Host-”

Wilford mumbled something that was clouded by his sobs. 

“What was that?” Dark asked, genuinely interested.

Wilford shook his head in dismissal and moved to get up. Dark tugged him down again by his sleeve.

“Wilford, please. What did you say?”

“What about you?” Wilford blurted out. “You don’t need me. You don’t need anyone, least of all someone like me.”

Dark was shocked silent. Had he not heard what he said earlier? Had he merely finally felt his presence? The silly buffoon. 

“Wil, I’m going to say this once and only once, so listen.” Dark waited until Wilford looked at him in the eye. When brown met black, he continued. “Do you know what a mirror is?”

He shook his head ‘no’. 

“That’s us. There can’t be one without the other. You’re just as important to me as I am to you. More so even. If you’re nothing, then what am I? I heard what you think about me, now hear me: I would not be here without you. You are not useless and you are not alone. And, if you ever feel that way again, you find me. Anytime, it doesn’t matter. Do you hear me?”

Wilford didn’t answer, but stared at his wrapped hand held in Dark’s. 

“I said, ‘Do you hear me?’,” Dark punctuated with a light squeeze of Wilford’s hand. Wilford winced and looked at Dark with new tears in his eyes.

“Yes,” Wilford mumbled. “I hear you.”

“Good,” Dark replied resolutely. “Now follow me to Dr. Iplier’s. We need to get that hand looked at.”

Dark stood and offered his hand to Wilford in another, rare showing of compassion. Wilford reached out with his uninjured hand and was pulled to his feet. He walked side by side with Dark across the roof before Dark opened the door and waved him in, not wanting him to leave his sight. He didn’t trust Wilford and he didn’t trust himself. Walking slowly down the stairs, Dark caught a quiet utterance from Wilford, but didn’t dare respond. 

Wilford whispered two final words, effectively ending their show of companionship for the day: “Thank you.”  

**Author's Note:**

> If you need to talk or feel like talking, leave me a comment and I'll get back to you ASAP. Know that all you are important. I may not know you, but I do know that you're still here and that's an achievement in itself and I'm proud of you.


End file.
